


The Girl

by PessoasLily



Series: Crossroads [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blood and Gore, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Consensual domestic violence, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Evil Sam Winchester, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Gaslighting, Graphic Depictions of Torture, M/M, Much darker than I had planned, Murder, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Not so evil Dean Winchester, Object Insertion, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Rape via object insertion, Real places/fictional murders, Serial Killer Dean, Serial Killer Sam, Stalking, That shouldn't be a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-21 05:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10678683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PessoasLily/pseuds/PessoasLily
Summary: It's only been a few months since Sammy and Dean killed Jess and Sammy's already getting the urge to kill again.He's already picked the perfect girl.





	1. Go on ahead and take this the wrong way

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title taken from Tom Waits' _[Who Are You](https://youtu.be/9BNTymuwHM4)_
> 
> Yes, this verse is all about my resent Tom Waits binge.

“Son of a bitch, Sammy,” Dean yelled. “Jess’ been dead three months and you want to kill again? Isn’t that reckless? The cops have nothin’ on her ex.”

Sammy glared and turned his back on Dean as he reached into the refrigerator for two beers. He held one out to Dean.

“I know what I’m doing. This ain’t my first rodeo,” he teased as he popped the cap off his beer and took a deep draw, tossing the cap in the garbage can.

Dean took the beer but didn’t open it. He pulled himself up on a barstool.

“Thanks for that reassuring cliche.”

Sammy rolled his eyes.

Dean sighed, setting his beer down and running both hands through his hair. “I get it. This is your thing. Your serial killer knowhow.”

Sam huffed a laugh and inhaled a bit of his beer. He started to cough and Dean got up quickly to pat him on the back.

“Dude,” Sammy rasped, “Hitting me on the back isn’t going to help me breathe any easier.”

Dean glared, removed his hand and grabbed his beer.

“Well fuck me for trying to help, asshole.” He popped the cap off and began to gulp, returning to the barstool. The beer tasted like shit. Fucking microbrews.

Sammy said they were Jess’, and since they ran out of the good stuff the night before, they’d been reduced to drinking the slag.

“I’m nervous, man. Cops don’t stop looking for killers of rich white girls,” Dean worried as Sammy caught his breath.

Sammy nodded and leaned back against the counter, crossing his ankles. “I get it, Dean. I just don't see how this is different from anything else we’ve hunted. Shit, you were the one who taught me how to hold my machete the best way for a clean decapitation. You wouldn't have a problem with this if I’d told you she was a vampire.”

 _She._ The girl Sammy had targeted to die.

“Of course I wouldn’t. We kill vampires to save people. Remember, the family business?” Dean protested, a mix of ill ease and frustration.

Sammy snarled. “The family business,” he growled with a huff, looking to the ceiling as if it would immediately conjure John Winchester so he could slit _his_ throat.

“I don’t get why you’re so squeamish.” Sammy said, taking another pull from his beer and coughing a bit more as the alcohol hit his now sore throat. “You and dad butcher people all the time. How many bodies have you buried in shallow graves with heads resting near the kneecaps?”

They’d had this argument several times. It never managed to sway Dean, no matter how well the little wannabe lawyer laid out his case.

“It’s different,” Dean protested.

“How,” Sammy asked, holding his beer out in front of his face, making a disgusted sound and dumping the rest of it down the sink.

“We’re saving people, Sammy. We’re not slashing throats for kicks.”

“You didn’t have a problem cutting up Jess,” Sammy replied, taking Dean’s beer from his hand and setting it down on the table. He pulled Dean off the stool and leaned back against the counter, pulling Dean between his long, slightly spread legs.

“I seem to remember you being so hot and hard for it that you let me fuck you over her corpse,” Sammy crooned as he leaned down to kiss Dean’s lips, Dean’s normally sweet taste muted by the rank alcohol. “You were so fucking sexy, covered in blood, begging for it.”

There was nothing to say to that, so Dean returned to his standard argument. “It’s too soon, Sammy. We need to let the heat die down.”

“We won’t get caught. I’ll take care of you.” Sammy whispered, kissing along Dean’s jaw and down his neck.

Dean put his arms around Sammy’s waist and tilted his head a little, letting Sammy explore his neck with tongue and teeth.

“I don’t want to go to jail, Sammy. California has the death penalty.”

“You won’t, I promise. Come on, baby. I’ll make it so good. You should see her. She’s perfect. Born to die.” Sammy coaxed.

“No,” Dean said. His voice firmer than he felt.

Sammy shoved Dean away and walked out of the kitchen. “When did you turn into such a whiney bitch?”

Dean sighed and did another fruitless search of the cabinets for whiskey.

They’d been fighting almost non-stop for the last week. Dean would accuse Sammy of being a fucking psychopath, Sammy would call Dean a spineless pussy. They’d wrestle each other to the ground, blows ineffectual in the multilimb melee. Sammy would eventually pin Dean, face down, roughly undo his jeans and expose his ass. Dean would struggle against Sammy’s hold as Sammy undid his own pants, grabbed his cock and pushed into Dean with one vicious thrust.

Dean was always wet and loose, Sammy’s irrepressible sex drive lethal in and of itself.

Fuckings like this were fast and brutal, Sammy sparing little thought of getting Dean off. Many times it ended with Sammy coming, quickly pulling out and slapping Dean’s ass, leaving Dean to finish himself.

Dean knew Sammy needed to kill. He just wasn't sure he could join him.

Dean found Sammy in the bedroom later that night, sharpening knives while some maudlin Emo crap played in the background. You could take the boy out of college but you can’t take college out of the boy.

Stanford was another thing they fought about. Sammy took a month off for Jess’ funeral and to “mourn”, but told Dean he planned on returning to finish his degree. Dean lost his shit, throwing a picture of Sammy and Jess taken during a ski trip against the wall.

“Why the fuck would you want to go back to that school? To murder more coeds? Perhaps another professor?” Dean shouted, pulling the textbook Sammy had been studying and tossing it in the direction of the photograph.

“That professor fucked with my grade!"

Dean ignored him. “How many times are you going to leave me? Wasn’t killing Jess enough? How much more do I have to do to prove I’m good enough for you?”

Sammy gave Dean a look that was so full of pity Dean punched him in the face.

“Don’t. Don’t you look at me like that.” Dean warned. “You don’t get to feel sorry for me. Fucking psychopath.” Sammy grabbed Dean’s arm as he tried to rush out of the room and pulled him to the bed, sitting down next to the place where he’d pushed Dean down.

“Dean. No. It’s not like that. It was never like that.” Sammy said softly, linking their hands together and rubbing his thumb over the silver bracelet he’d sent Dean a year ago.

It matched the ring he took from Michael Benton, the gym rat he killed for hitting on him. At some point after Sammy left for college, Dean moved the ring to his wedding finger.

The bracelet belonged to an investment banker that had spilled his beer on Sammy while he and Jess were having dinner at The Stinking Rose in North Beach. The man didn’t even stop to apologize, and later Sammy excused himself and followed him to the bathroom. With a quick, hard shove to the guy’s shoulder, Sammy deftly picked his pocket and apologized for being so clumsy. He took a piss, washed his hands, and smiled at himself in the mirror.

A new kill.

It turned out the beer spiller was actually named Mark Smith, age 34. Organ donor. How dull. Sammy spent the next two months trailing the guy, breaking into his apartment to clone his phone and steal shit the guy wouldn’t miss, learning his patterns and when he was most likely to be alone. Sammy got his chance a week before Christmas. Mark was out shopping for his fiancee’, Christopher, and wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. Sammy followed him to his car near the Presidio and shoved a knife into his back, severing his spinal cord. It looked like Sammy had accidentally bumped into him while he was jogging, not even hearing when the man shouted and fell, the sound drowned out by Sammy’s headphones. Sammy was hidden among the trails of the park before the first siren sounded.

“I’m glad you wear this,” Sammy said, lifting Dean’s hands to his lips and kissing his palms.

Dean pulled his hands away and scooted over to the headboard, leaning against it and glaring at Sammy. “Don’t patronize me. I know it’s just one of your sick trophies.”

Sammy shrugged and placed his hand on Dean’s knee. “Nothing is more important to me than you. You were always good enough for me. I ran from Dad, never you. I love you.”

“Whatever, bitch.” Dean swore, turning his head to hide his smile. “I still don’t understand why you want to stay here in this stuck up fuckfest of a town.”

“We need money, Dean. Lots of it.” Sammy reasoned, moving up the bed to sit next to Dean. “Serial killing isn’t cheap, and if you’re going to want to continue hunting, I’m going to make damn sure you don’t end up doing a nickle at San Quentin for credit card fraud.”

Dean huffed. “So what? You become a rich, fat lawyer. We buy a house in the suburbs and you kill on the weekends and your infrequent vacations? What kind of life is that, Sammy?”

“Don’t make having a home sound like I’m asking you to give up a testicle. It’s security. Freedom. A perfect fucking alibi. Two psychopaths in love hidden among the hedges and block parties.”

Dean rolled his eyes and tried not to laugh. “I’m not a psychopath and I don’t want to be a psychopath's housewife.”

“Househusband, technically,” Sammy said with a smirk.

“Whatever, bitch. How do you plan pulling off having an incestuous relationship with your househusband of a brother and not get disbarred? Last I heard, incest was illegal too.”

Sammy laughed, mouth open and straight white teeth gleaming in the bright lights of the room. “We fucked on the remains of my dead girlfriend and you think I can’t come up with a decent cover about where you come from?”

“What about Dad?”

Sammy stilled. This was a conversation neither of them wanted to have.

“Dad’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get there.”

“I don’t know. What am I supposed to do while you’re in school? I’m a highschool dropout with a GED, my only marketable skills apparently body dismemberment and corpse disposal.”

Sammy laughed again, put his arm around Dean and pulled him close. “Just a few of the things I love about you.”

Dean punched him.

“Stop worrying so much. I’m not leaving you. Whether we stay here, or hit the road and die early of a coronary because we survived on diner food too long, I am never leaving you again.”

Dean turned his head to Sammy and offered up his lips for a kiss.

Sammy accepted the invitation and they spent the rest of the day breaking more things in the bedroom for much funner reasons.

  


Dean stood in the doorway studying Sammy’s lean, long body spread out on the bed, a textbook in his lap, sharpening stone in one hand, his favorite knife in the other. The music coming out of the Bose iPod dock a contradictory soundtrack to the movements and machinations of a monster. Sammy was always a good looking kid but he was a stunning young man. Dean got hard just looking at him.

He’d be lying if he said he was only in love with the parts of his brother that remained innocent. His picky diet, girly shampoo, nerdy brilliance and craptastic taste in music. If Dean were honest with himself, which he rarely was, he’d admit he also loved Sammy the killer. 

The blood soaked boy of his nightmares, the hard imposing man of his dreams.

Sammy was ignoring him, the tension of their earlier fight still thick in the air. Dean waited until Sammy gave in and looked up at him.

Sammy never gave in. It was always Dean.

“Ok, Sammy. We’ll do it your way. Tell me about the girl.”

Sammy looked up with a blinding smile and Dean felt his heart expand like a balloon.

He was so in love.


	2. You overshare

The girl turned out to be 25 year old cocktail waitress, Ruby Jessop. Dark brown hair, dark brown eyes. A mouth made for sucking things.

She’d moved to the Bay Area six months ago to escape the oppressive conservative nature of her hometown. According to Tumblr, YouTube and Facebook, she was from Paris, Texas, a small manufacturing town in Lamar County, population 25,171. Well, now 25,170.

She went to Paris Texas High School where she cheered on the Paris Wildcats.

She was homecoming and prom queen, and came from new money. Her dad, Ronald Jessop, struck it rich when they’d found oil on his 200 acre plot of useless desert. The land had been in the family for generations though it was never developed beyond a small Victorian with peeling paint and a bad roof.

Her mother, Joanna, a desperate social climber, traded in her Walmart blue frock for designer clothes and ostentatious jewelry when a drunken one night stand found her pregnant with Ronald’s child.

Ruby had no siblings and few friends outside her online world. She drove an old Honda, shopped at thrift stores and discount grocers, and cut her own hair. Apparently her move to the “bastion of sin” city of San Francisco meant she was cut off from the family coffers.

Ruby seemed no worse for the wear, surprisingly well-adjusted and even keeled about her new financial status. She made good tips serving overpriced drinks to leering businessmen at The View. Ruby enjoyed the tall glass windows that offered a breathtaking look at the city she now called home, a stark contrast to the brick wall outside her studio apartment.

She made hair and makeup tutorials on YouTube, and shared and liked photos of the latest fashions on Tumblr. Her Facebook revealed she had a wide variety of interests, from lipsticks to ancient history, much of her knowledge coming from other people’s posts. It seemed to supplement her high school education fairly effectively.

People overshared too goddamn much online.

Sammy hardly had to do much in-person stalking. Beyond information he gleaned from the one time he broke into her apartment, Ruby appeared to be exactly what she presented herself as; a self-confident, passionate and independent woman with an impressive collection of vibrators.

Her celibacy was one of the things Sammy liked best. A few go nowhere dates every couple of months, and coffee with friends from work whenever she couldn’t come up with a proper excuse to refuse the invitation.

Beautiful, intelligent, and utterly alone in the world. She was the perfect target.

Sammy had Dean on his knees, his cock in Dean’s mouth and hand on the back of Dean’s neck to control the speed and depth of Dean’s movements. Dead had no gag reflex and never complained when Sammy used his mouth to edge himself for hours.

“She’s perfect,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you she’s perfect?”

Dean hummed in agreement and continued to suck, his tongue exploring Sammy’s slit and circumsized head, before Sammy pushed him down, large cock hitting the back of Dean’s throat.

“That’s it, baby. Suck me. So fucking gorgeous like this,” Sammy breathed.

Dean blinked back a few tears, his wet eyelashes, flushed cheeks and stuffed mouth the perfect tableau of debauchery. 

Sammy continued to read off details of the girl’s life, playing her YouTube videos, and describing in explicit detail what he planned to do to her.

He needed a space with plenty of room and privacy. No warehouse this time but maybe a foreclosed upon property in the East Bay, something with transient neighbors, renters who minded their own business.

Dean could feel Sammy’s cock harden a little bit more every time he got to a particularly graphic description of her body, blood and suffering.

Dean had a fleeting feeling of jealousy, ego burned by the fact that even though he was the one sucking Sammy’s cock, he wasn’t the reason he was getting off.

Dean knew this would be another day where he’d have to see to his own needs, Sammy too preoccupied with his hunt to care about Dean’s pleasure. Or presence, it seemed. Dean sucked harder, took Sammy in deeper, hoping to capture the man’s attention again.

Sammy groaned, grabbed the back of Dean’s head and said, “I can’t wait to fuck you in front of her. I think I’ll leave her face alone this time. Pin her head in place so she has to watch.”

Dean just nodded, desperate in his desire to be as agreeable as possible.

Sammy moaned again, pushed himself in as deep as he could go and told Dean to swallow. Dean felt Sammy pulsing, his salty, bitter semen coating the back of Dean’s throat. After a few minutes, awash in afterglow, Sammy tucked himself back into his jeans and told Dean to get him a beer.

“Whatever you want, Sammy,” Dean said through his wrecked, fucked out voice.

Sammy nodded distractedly and went back to looking at Ruby’s pictures.

The shit people posted online about themselves almost took the fun out of being a serial killer. They made it so fucking easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated.


	3. Dean rides shotgun, Sammy picks the music

“How did you know,” Dean asked, staring out the window at a group of people gathered at a crosswalk on the corner of 24th and Mission. A mix of San Francisco’s wealthy elite, hipster wage slaves and burgeoning homeless; all of them oblivious to the monsters in the car a few feet away.

“I’m going to need you to be more specific,” Sammy replied. His eyes on the car in front of him.

“That I was coming. That I’d be at the warehouse.” 

Sammy took his eyes off the car and looked at Dean, surprised.

Sammy thought Dean looked good riding shotgun. He took in his older brother’s slouched posture, the leg crossed over his other, foot resting near the knee, the way he tugged at the loose strings on the hem. His insecurity made Sammy hard. He had so much planned to reshape Dean into a sharp, vicious weapon. He intended to undo every aspect of John’s obedient, dutiful soldier.

Not bothering to fill the uncomfortable silence, Sammy let Dean continue.

Dean met his eyes, then nervously looked away. “I didn’t call. She had to have been on that table for hours. The bruises on her wrists and ankles were already bleeding. How did you know?”

Sammy returned his attention back to the car in front of him, speeding up as traffic began to move and it was his turn to go.

“You and dad were on a hunt near Battle Creek, Michigan. Jess and I were in Augusta attending the wedding of her high school friend. I saw the Impala drive passed on route 96. I’d been waiting for a time to come find you, but honestly, it was dumb luck.” Sammy’s bland response belied his laser focus on Dean, as he continued to look for parking near La Taqueria, the restaurant he said served pretty decent burritos.

They were here to see Ruby, her apartment a block away.

“Jess was at the bachelorette party,” Sammy recalled, “so I had the night to myself. You being your disgustingly predictable self, were at the first dive bar I checked out. You met some skank and I followed you both back to her place. You were too distracted fucking her in the shower to notice when I broke into her house. I turned your phone’s GPS on and cloned it.”

Battle Creek? _Oh god. Lisa._

“You know that dumb slut went out and banged another guy just a few days later? Bitch got knocked up.” Sammy glanced over and mistook the meaning of Dean’s pale face. “Don’t worry, big brother. You’re not a father. The baby daddy agreed to a DNA test. You’re in the clear.”

Dean’s stomach plummeted. Both relieved that he didn’t have a child out there and terrified that he’d inadvertently put Lisa in Sammy’s path.

Sammy finally found a place to park. Dean would rather have parked Baby on the railroad tracks than leave her on the street in this shitty neighborhood. It wasn’t his choice. So few things were these days.

“You’re like that too, aren’t you, Dean?” Sammy put the car in park, took the keys out of the ignition and turned, head titled slightly to the side. “A slut.” He reached over and ran his fingers through Dean’s neat spiky hair, messing it up. “Those days are behind you now. Right?” He gripped the short hairs tightly, then released. Message sent.

Nodding toward Dean’s door and opening his own, Sammy directed, “Come on, let’s go eat.” 

“Did you,” Dean hesitated to complete the thought, let alone the sentence.

Sammy stilled, holding the door mostly closed so it wouldn’t get taken off by a passing car. “What? Kill her?” He laughed. “No.” They got out of the car, Sammy grabbed Dean’s hand and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “I’m saving her for you.”

Dean felt sick. _Lisa had a kid._ How many more casualties of his sick obsession with Sammy would there be?

“After I cloned your phone, knowing where you were was easy.” Sammy continued. “I tracked your movements all over. Read up on the hunts you were on. Saw when you entered the address to the warehouse into your phone and headed west.”

Dean thought of the days and nights he spent without Sammy, bone deep weary and alone. He would have given anything to see him, and the whole time Sammy was just a shadow away.

When they got to the brightly painted restaurant they ordered burritos and a couple of Mandarina drinks, sat at a table closest to the door, Dean’s back to it. That was also new. Old Dean would never have left himself open like that. Dean was beginning to defer to Sammy the way he did Dad, even in which seat he sat, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

Sammy faced the door, ate his burrito and waited. Ruby texted a friend to meet her here at 3:30. She arrived at 3:25. Sammy’s pupils dilated as he took her in, his expression impassive. Dean stayed steadfastly focused on his food, though it tasted like ash.

This wasn't like any hunt he'd ever been on. Here, he was the monster.

Ruby’s friend arrived a little after 3:40; a middle 30s goth if you went by the amount of black eyeliner and clothing, smiling brightly and waving his hand. Ruby returned his smile and motioned him over.

Aside from the first look he took of her in the doorway, Sammy’s eyes never strayed in her direction. He made polite, pointless conversation with a barely present Dean, nothing interesting enough to eavesdrop on. No jokes with attention grabbing laughter. Though he never looked her way, Dean knew Sammy was taking in every detail, a snake in the grass waiting to strike.

She laughed, deep and musical, and Dean turned just in time to see her head thrown back, face flushed with mirth.

He felt Sammy grab his hand and squeeze - hard.

He’d look at her. Starred. Sammy’s number one rule when stalking: Don’t look.

Dean quickly turned away, returned his attention to Sammy's inane chatter. He even managed to toss in a few touristy questions. Where was the funny winding street? Can you really get any drug you want in Golden Gate Park? Why hadn't they ever caught the Zodiac killer?

He choked on the last question and looked up to assess the damage. Was it taboo for serial killers to talk about other serial killers? Sammy appeared amused, maybe a little smug. He leaned over and whispered in Dean's ear, “That guy was an ametuar.”

“He never got caught,” Dean whispered back.

“Touche.”

Sammy kissed his cheek.

Dean stopped talking, letting Sammy fill the silence. For a man whose job requires expertise in lying, Dean felt woefully out of depth.

After a socially acceptable amount of time being there, Sammy rubbed his stomach and made a satisfied sigh. Standing, picking up his trash and gesturing toward Dean’s uneaten half a burrito, “You done?” Nodding, Dean wrapped up the remains of his burrito, picked up his empty drink container and used napkins, and deposited it all in the trash with Sammy’s.

“Ok, mister out of towner. Let's go see if we can't get in one of those tourist traps you're so curious about.”

Grateful to Sammy for retaking the lead, he offered his hand as a child might to a parent whenever they walked in public. Sammy took it, kissed Dean on the lips and lead them out of the restaurant.

_Nothing to see here, folks. Just another couple of gay guys doing gay things._

Once they were out on the street again, Sammy turned them in the direction of Ruby's apartment. He wanted one more quick search of the place to see if anything had changed. Had she taken a lover? Bought a cat? Getting away with murder is all in the details and it reduced the risk of having to kill a more high profile witness.

They had all afternoon for their search. Ruby's friend was taking her to see something at the Roxie, but it wasn't safe to spend anymore time than necessary. 

Her apartment was typical ghetto chic, mismatched thrift store furniture and the kind of crap that came in boxes with too many parts and bad directions. To liven up the dark space, she used bright colored pillows and throws, eclectic lamps and knick knacks, and a handmade quilt for her twin bed. Some art prints you’d find on the walls in every college dorm were held up on the stark white walls with thumbtacks. Homey, feminine and tiny.

She wasn’t bringing her hookups here.

Dean made a move to sit on her ugly afghan covered couch but Sammy grabbed his arm.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Looking to deposit some helpful DNA for the DA? Why don’t you just drop your wallet by the body. Take some fucking selfies with it.” Sammy scolded.

“I didn’t know,” Dean moved away from the sofa, hands held up. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s because everything Dad taught you was wrong. If your DNA ever made it into the system, you’d be in prison for the rest of your life.”

“What do you mean?” Dean didn’t like to think of his hunts as murders. If he had, would he have gone through the trouble of hiding evidence of his presence? He pretended to be the police, for fucksake. How much surveillance video existed of him talking with cops right before someone disappeared? The normally human shaped bad guy.

Dean’s stomach ache was not going away.

“Nothing. Nevermind. Just don’t sit on anything and don’t fucking touch anything without wearing these.” Sammy handed him a pair of what looked like blue surgical gloves and he put them on.

“Leave everything the way you found it. No clumsy drawer searches, no stealing her journal for a titillating read. If she gets even a spidey sense that something is amiss, she’ll tell a friend. That is the last thing we want.”

 _Once._ One time when he was like twelve, Dean stole the journal of a girl they’d been trying to save. 20 somethings had very educational sex lives. 8 year old Sammy hadn’t approved and his older counterpart hadn’t let it go.

Sammy concluded from a perusal of her garbage can that she was eating-in every night and there were no lovers dropping by for a quicky. No condom wrappers, no used condoms. She wasn’t on the pill unless she kept the packet in her purse and a quick look at her online medical records showed she hadn’t been to see her gynecologist in over a year. Naughty girl not getting her yearly PAP.

No evidence she was switch hitting.

Dean looked around the room without touching anything, more fearful of Sammy’s wrath than shedding evidence or spooking the girl, and stopped in front of a table laden with photographs of friends and family. They may have abandoned her but it seemed Ruby had not stopped loving her parents.

Dean shouldn’t have looked.

A family photograph of the Jessops’ at Christmas, each sporting hideous holiday sweaters and antlers. A picture of a teenaged Ruby, surrounded by a group of girls, all wearing Paris Wildcats cheerleading uniforms. A photo of Ruby holding an infant in her arms, smiling down at it like it was her own. Child of a friend? A picture of Ruby as a toddler chewing on the ear of a big dog. Her parents’ wedding photo. Ruby at prom. Ruby in front of a Welcome to California sign. In every photo she smiled brightly, her expressions vibrant and alive, completely unaware that it would all end in horror and violence.

The taste of ash returned, and Dean stopped his search. He didn’t want to know anything more about Ruby Jessop.

Sammy was looking through Ruby’s’ bathroom drawers, both packed full of makeup, hair brushes, and other girl crap. The cabinet beneath had much of the same: flat irons, curling irons, a variety of hair dyes. It seemed Ruby Jessop had blonde ambitions. Sammy thought she’d make a better redhead. He left it as he found it and went to the kitchen.

The kitchen was a repeat of the same kitschy decor. There were no dishes in the sink, nothing drying on the counter. Her apartment confirmed everything they’d gathered about her. She was content, happy with herself and her life. And a neat freak. 

Sammy found a roast carver’s knife in the back of the utensil drawer. Given how far back it was buried it was safe to assume she rarely if ever used it. He wrapped it up in a pair of panties Dean didn’t see him take and stuck them both in the inside pocket of his coat.

He turned to Dean and leered, “Can’t wait to see you in these. They might be a bit tight but it’ll help me decide if I want to see you in them more often and buy some in your size.”

Before Dean could cough up a response, Sammy was heading to the door. 

“I’ve seen enough here. Want to grab a trophy now or would you like to cut one from the body?” Sammy casually inquired. 

“I’m good. Thanks.” Dean forced out. He knew throwing up in her toilet would be a big no-no.

Sammy looked out the peephole to make sure no one was walking by, then gestured for Dean to follow him out. “Great,” he exclaimed, clapping his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I want to show you the house I picked.”

Surprised, “You’ve already found a house?” Sammy had been so busy with schoolwork, Dean had hoped he wouldn’t have time.

_Maybe then Ruby could reconcile with her parents and move back to Texas. Decide it was time to backpack through Europe. Take a job on the moon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was longer than the first two combined so I've decided to break it up and post the new chapters at the same time.
> 
> Comments are love. Thanks for reading.


	4. How did the razor find my throat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Tom Wait's [Alice](https://youtu.be/aEj-mrwwaxo)

The Bay Area has seen its fair share of economic crises. From the boom to bust Dot com industry to the market collapse in 08, ancillary cities like Concord seemed to gain the least and suffer the most.

Its residents enjoyed no great influx of cushy tech jobs but their housing market was devastated by the flipper craze. Rich techies bought low and sold high, pricing out many of the longtime residents. When the housing bubble burst, investors abandoned ship, evicted renters, and left the properties to the mercy of the banks. The result was neighborhoods full of uncared for, boarded up houses with overgrown lawns; easy pickings for drug dealers and squatters. These properties dragged down the value of every house near them, turned what were once nice neighborhoods into borderline ghettos.

Things have been improving but the scars remain. It’s still possible to find a foreclosed property seemingly forgotten by the bank. Like the one Sammy found.

The owner of the 2200 sq ft 3 bedroom, 2 bath ranch style home had been in the middle of installing a pool when he lost his job. Unable to pay the contractors to finish their work, the project was abandoned mid-build, a gigantic hole left in the backyard. The family couldn’t find a buyer to move into the house with a half-built pool that no one but the former Southern Californians seemed to want.

It was perfect for Sammy’s needs. No one would question if they pulled up in a pickup truck dressed like construction workers and started hauling things into the house. The neighbors who paid attention would be happy ‘that damn bank was finally doing something’ and the renters wouldn’t look up from their cell phones if the house next door were on fire.

They were in such a truck now, hardhats on, work belts strapped around their narrow hips. Sammy found the truck on craigslist for $5,000, its tags were up-to-date. No need to go through the bothersome task of registering it in one of their many aliases since they’d be ditching it in a ravine as soon they were finished. They parked the Impala near the storage facility where Sammy kept his “tools”.

The house wasn’t much to look at from the outside. Curb appeal was hard to see passed the 2' of grass and weeds surrounding the place. The inside was a different story. Open the windows a bit to air out the smell of dust, a good clean to the hardwood floors and marble countertops, and the place would polish up nice. Best of all, Sammy pronounced, it had a basement.

They pulled the truck into the garage and began unloading supplies. Lots of rolled up plastic, duct tape, rope. A couple of buckets Dean did not want to know the use for. And Sammy’s kill kit. Knives, pruning shears, a machete, pliers, tweezers, a variety of toxic and acidic chemicals, a few power tools. A mop.

Looking at it, imagining their uses, made Dean lightheaded. He tried to hide his distress but you can’t hide anything from Sammy.

Sammy looked at him, his expression unreadable, and told him to bring everything down to the basement. Dean did as he was told.

Five hours later they had their kill room. Given the meticulous way Sammy went about setting it up and his patient and repetitive demonstration, Dean suspected he was meant to learn these things. He would be asked to repeat what he’d been taught. With the maelstrom swirling around his mind and body, Dean wished he’d taken notes.

He didn’t want to disappoint Sammy.

As it happened, he would disappoint Sammy in ways their relationship might never recover from.

  


Sammy was furious. Engraged.

The first thing Sammy did after binding her to a chair was cut Ruby’s vocal chords. “The bitch doesn’t deserve to speak. She’ll only try bewitch you more.” He quickly bandaged the wound, not wanting her to bleed out before the fun started.

Then the “fun” began. Dean was bound to a chair of his own, his facing directly in front of Ruby’s, head trapped in a plywood contraption that prevented him from looking away. Sammy told him he was going to see what his deception cost. He would taste it.

“Everything I do to her now is because of you.” Sammy hissed. Sammy seethed. “Six months of planning and everything ruined!”

Six months. Since before Jess.

Sammy picked her hand up and began systematically shoving bamboo beneath her fingernails, down passed the quick and deep into the bed. Even voiceless, she screamed. Her face awash in agony. Sammy left the bamboo there, wiggling a few deeper in, his face contorted and inhuman. Utterly unrecognizable.

Sammy went to his work table and hummed as he thought about what he wanted to use next.

He picked up a box of needles. Pulled a long, sharp one out and stepped in front of her.

He used the tip to scratch a deep line on her left cheek, then stuck the needle in her mouth. “Lick,” he commanded. Ruby’s head was being held in place by two wires attached to the ceiling, connected to her earlobes. If she moved too far, turned her head to escape the pain, the thin sharp wire would server her ear.

She held out her tongue and let Sammy wipe her blood on it.

He smiled, too much teeth and no warmth. Sammy looked to Dean and glared.

“Is she want you want? You’d rather fuck her than me? Am I not good enough for you? After everything I’ve done for you. All my plans,” Sammy’s voice was shrill, rising in pitch.

“No,” Dean begged. “It wasn’t like that.”

Sammy moved lightning fast, struck Dean’s cheek with his open palm. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t get to talk to me. You fucking betrayed me!”

Dean wept, devastated. He did betray Sammy. This was all his fault. He wanted time to swallow his soul, hell to open up and take him home.

Sammy returned to Ruby, wicked needle pointed toward a place on her arm, and pushed it in. She fell back slightly, pain so intense she risked losing her ears to get away from it.

Sammy picked up another needle.

It went on like this for hours. Needles, branding iron, power tools, pruning shears. Ruby was barely recognizable as human. So much flesh had been removed, so much blood, piss and shit stained her clothes and the chair beneath her. Her pretty flower dress ruined.

Dean struggled to keep his reactions to a minimum. Every time he made a noise to protest, Sammy’s viciousness escalated. Dean had to remain immobile, silent for Ruby’s sake, until this was all over. He owed her that.

Dean looked down and saw that Sammy was hard. Dean felt a sudden burst of inappropriate jealousy.

Breaking his silence, he asked “Do you want to,” gesturing to her spread legs, a large dildo stuff inside her. He could see the that the pretty pink lips of her vulva swallowed it, held it in place. Dean felt his cock twitch. The smell of blood, piss and shit was getting to him, making him crazy.

“What? Rape her,” Sammy laughed. “No, sweetheart,” the first kind word Sammy had spoken since he found Dean at the railway station. “I may get hard looking at her but she’s not the reason I’m hard.”

He reached over and felt Dean’s semi-erect cock and slapped him in the face. “I see you do. Want me to pull that out,” gesturing to the dildo, “so you can fuck her wrecked cunt?”

“No!” Dean protested and swallowed around the constant rising bile in his throat.

Sammy looked at him like he was little more than the piss and shit that covered the ravaged girl.

He wasn’t wrong.

In a moment of guilt, head swimming with images of Ruby’s life, Dean took Caltrain to San Francisco on a day that Sammy was supposed to be in class in hopes of warning her, maybe talking her into returning to Texas. He knew he’d sound crazy, that he was more likely to get arrested than prevent her death but something kept pulling him on, kept making him want to try.

Sammy knew what he’d been planning before he left for school that day. Maybe before Dean did.

He was waiting outside Dean’s train car, leaning against a pillar, when Dean stepped out into the bright, beautiful day. The look on his face was so full of fury and death that for the first time, after years of knowing what his brother was, he was afraid for himself.

Sammy didn't say anything, knew Dean would follow without being told. Ruby was tied up and hidden beneath a tarp in the back of the truck. Dean was expecting Sammy to yell, maybe hit him, but his silence all the way to the house was much worse.

Sammy coldly spoke, “After we get rid of her body, you can go. We’re done.”

Panic moved through Dean like a flash flood. All thoughts of pity, all senses attuned to the horror in front of them, wiped away in a solitary moment of clarity. This would cost him Sammy. This random woman who had abandoned her family and was no good to anyone was going to be the catalyst for Sammy finally leaving Dean for good.

Dean threw up.

“Sammy, no, please,” Dean whispered, his voice childlike and lost. “You promised. You said you’d never leave me.”

“I said I’d never leave but I never said I wouldn’t let you go.” Sammy’s voice hard and implacable. He walked over to Dean and began to undo his bindings. Once he was done, Sammy turned his back, dismissing him.

Then, changing his mind, "Leave. I'll clean this up myself. I want you out of my apartment by the time I get back.”

Tears that were threatening to spill over fell in earnest. Dean trembled. “No,” he protested. “I have nowhere to go. I don't want to. I have nothing without you.”

Sammy turned back to him, shouted, “Then why did you chose her? I did everything for you! Didn't I say I'd take care of you? No more living in shitty motels, no more bad diner food and petty crime. Give you everything you could possibly need or want. And this," gesturing to Ruby, "is how you repay me.” He turned away and swept all his bloodstained tools onto the floor in a deafening crash.

"I was going to give you the one thing you want most in the world."

“You.” Dean realized, stunned. “You were going to give me you.”

“Yes.”

Dean fell to his knees, wrapped his arms around Sammy’s legs and cried, begged. “Don’t leave me. I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me. I know I messed up. I was scared. Wasn’t thinking. But I love you. Oh god, don’t leave me.”

Sammy said nothing. Looked passed Dean. Dean was his past.

“No, please. No. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” Dean pleaded, clutching Sammy further to him, his face getting bloody from the gore coating most of Sammy.

Sammy didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Didn’t touch Dean’s hair.

“Tell me what to do,” Dean begged.

Angry, Sammy responded, shoving Dean way, “I told you what to do. You decided playing the fucking knight in shining armor was more important than me. Us.”

Undeterred, desperate, Dean grabbed Sammy’s legs again. “I was wrong. I don’t care about her. Kill her. Kill anyone. I don’t care. Just don’t leave me,” Tears were flowing freely down Dean’s face, Dean rubbing his face into Sammy’s legs, between his thighs, nuzzling his still hard cock.

Dean reached his hands up, let his fingers hover over the button, looked up into Sammy’s face. Sammy was now looking down at him.

“Let me. Please. Let me make you feel good.” Dean began to rub his other hand over Sammy’s cock, stroking it through the denim.

“It won’t change anything.”

“I don’t care,” reaching up and unbuttoning Sammy’s jeans, “I just want to make you feel good. Please.”

Sammy made no move to stop him, offered no encouragement.

Dean took Sammy’s cock out, it was slightly coated in blood, and took it into his mouth. He licked, sucked, swallowed, desperate to make Sammy respond, make a sound. Acknowledge that Dean existed. That he hadn’t disappeared. Still, Sammy remained impassive. Dean sucked harder, fucking his face on Sammy’s cock, making sure to swallow deep, get him down his throat as much as possible. It didn’t seem to be doing a thing. Dean put his hands on Sammy’s ass, pushed his cock further into his mouth, trying to mimic the thrusts he’d receive when Sammy wanted this, when he was being used so beautifully.

It went on for what felt like hours though it was only a few minutes. His head was dizzy from lack of oxygen. When Sammy finally came, it was silent, his hands never reaching for Dean’s head to hold him still like he normally would. The only time Sammy touched him was to shove him away. Dean fell back on his ass onto a pile of blood and gore.

"You've had your fill. No get the fuck out." Sammy tucked himself in and once again turned his back. 

Dean tried begging again. “What can I do to fix this? I’ll do anything. Please let me fix this.”

Sammy bent down to pick up the carver’s knife he’d stolen from Ruby and held it out to Dean. “Finish her.”

Dean grabbed the knife, turned and stabbed the barely breathing Ruby in the heart without hesitation.

The silence that followed felt like a second death.

Then, slowly, Sammy walked up to the corpse, pulled the knife out and handed it back to Dean.

“Good boy.”

The warmth that spread through Dean because of those two simple words was fire hot, searing into him forever the moment that he’d pleased Sammy. Truly, completely, pleased him.

“Let’s clean this trash up and go home,” waving his hand in the direction of the dead woman.

Home.

“Ok,” Dean replied, the picture of supplication and obedience. “Where do I start?”

Dean didn’t see Sammy’s smile when he turned his back to survey the carnage. His satisfied, smug smile. It had worked.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments always welcome.


End file.
